


We've Got Our Distance

by 3988Akasha



Series: Chicago [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3988Akasha/pseuds/3988Akasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting some intel from a reluctant Jeremy, Bass goes to Chicago to find Miles, determined to bring him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've Got Our Distance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Timid_Timbuktu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timid_Timbuktu/gifts), [ElDiablito_SF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/gifts).



> This is something I've been working on for a while...
> 
> It's Bass' POV, so I hope it still works.

It was strange to see Miles again. He looked the same, maybe a little older, a little more world-worn, but it was still Miles. From his place half-hidden by the door, Bass watched Miles interact with the patrons, noted how he was courteous, but never smiled. For a bar this close to the border, things were calm. Bass had done his research before leaving Philadelphia and had found that the bar was on the official records of the Monroe Republic, it had no violations and paid its taxes on time, every time. He couldn’t find any evidence that anyone had ever made a complaint about it either, which was rare with this type of establishment. That should have been the first clue. Only Miles, the one who'd made most of the damn rules would be able to follow them so exactly. Or, if one had been broken, keep word of it from reaching the militia.

Bass smiled to himself when he saw Miles tense, watched him scan the room, watched him take in each detail, finding the one that indicated something was wrong. It had always amazed him, Miles' ability to know instinctively when something was going on, something out of the ordinary. The valuable skill had gotten them both out of some precarious situations in the past. He felt Miles' gaze land on him and enjoyed seeing the shock register on his face. Oh, it was fleeting, Miles had an excellent poker face, but it was there and it filled Bass with a twisted pleasure, knowing he still had an effect on Miles.

"Everybody out," Miles called above the noise of the bar. "We're closed."

Bass expected some sort of commotion at Miles' announcement; it was early to be closing down a bar, but while there was some grumbling, people gathered their stuff, finished their drinks and filed out the door. Miles didn't say anything else as he walked through the back door, completely ignored the dozen militia soldiers still in the bar. It made Bass smile because even after everything, he was still Miles. He nodded to the men and they followed after Miles. It was silly, really, but taking the dozen men with him was the only way Bass had been able to convince Jeremy to give him the information. Like a dozen men could really keep him alive if Miles still wanted him dead.

Bass followed his men into the adjoining room and was struck by the grandeur of it. Miles always gave him crap about his aesthetic for the militia, but when Miles ran away, he created a little palace for himself. Torches on the columns, a giant fire pit, shelves filled with instruments from before the blackout, gold albums from Miles' favorite bands. A shrine to everything Miles seemed to love, and even if Miles hadn't been here, Bass would have seen the bar, seen the main foyer and _known_ Miles had been here. He ran his finger along the desk and looked up when he heard his men draw their swords. Miles stood at the top of the two-tier staircase, stance carefully relaxed. He looked every bit as powerful in his vagabond clothes as he did in uniform. He could sense the men shifting nervously around him.

"What are you doing here, Bass?"

Bass trailed his fingers along the edge of the phonograph as he turned to face Miles, his mind still processing all the bits of his personality that Miles had surrounded himself with, and wondering how Miles had managed to get his hands on a phonograph.

"I came to find you, Miles. To bring you home."

Miles tilted his head and Bass had a moment where he thought everything would be okay. He should have known better. Miles spun around and drove his sword into one of his men. Miles pulled his sword free and the body rolled down the first flight of stairs. There was a moment of tense silence where everyone was just waiting and then half of the men charged forward. Bass hadn't wanted anyone to attack Miles, but he couldn’t do anything about the men Miles was already slaughtering. Bass snapped the neck of the man nearest him and glared at the rest of his men.

"Don't attack him."

When the last body hit the ground, Bass couldn't take his eyes off Miles. He'd always been aroused by Miles when they were in the middle of a fight, watching him kill was beautiful. Miles was breathing heavily, blood from a cut on his lip and one near his left eyebrow drew Bass' gaze.

"I thought you wanted me alive."

Bass turned to his men. "Go wait in the bar."

"But, sir - "

"Go."

Miles only put his sword away once all the men were gone. They both stared at each other. Bass was trying to read his face, but Miles had his poker face securely locked and Bass had never been able to decipher that expression. The one thing he did know is that Miles wore that face when he was feeling something he didn't want anyone else to know. Bass desperately wanted to know what Miles was feeling. Was it anything like what he was feeling? Were his emotions a jumbled mess of anger, love, loneliness, happiness, hope? Or were they ordered? Miles tended to process things in a far more linear fashion than Bass. Finally, Miles moved. He walked over to the cupboard and pulled out an old bottle of liquor. He glanced over his shoulder at Bass.

"This is the last bottle of pre-blackout whiskey in Chicago. At least, as far as I know."

Miles poured two glasses and gestured for Bass to sit. He took the offered glass and settled into a chair next to Miles. The simplicity of their reunion felt a bit too normal, felt as though no time at all had passed; the two of them sitting by a fire in some rundown building drinking whatever liquor they could find, it was all too familiar.

"How'd you find me?"

"I didn't. Jeremy found you when he was running border patrols about a month ago. The local garrison recommended your place to him, so he came by. He couldn’t believe it was you behind the bar, though. He said he was lucky your back was turned; he left before you turned back around."

"Why didn't he just bring me in?"

"Would you have let him?"

Miles snorted a laugh. "No, probably not."

Bass gestured towards the bar with his nearly empty glass. "I didn't think I'd find you running a bar in Chicago."

"Bad location?"

Bass smirked. "It doesn't exactly play to your strengths." Bass leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees, eyes intent on Miles' face. "Look, Miles, I want you to come back."

"You want me to what?"

"I want you to come back. It was better, things were better when you were around."

"I tried to shoot you, Bass. I can't come back."

"I don't care about that. I forgive you."

"You didn't come here to kill me?"

Bass slid back on the chair, feeling as though he'd been hit over the head with a bus. He thought maybe Miles was joking, but no, the look in his eyes was one of absolute seriousness. That hurt, nearly as bad as knowing his best friend had wanted to shoot him. It hurt to think Miles thought he'd want to kill him.

"Why would I do that, Miles?"

"The last time I saw you, I had a gun to your head."

Bass stood up, walked over to the cupboard and placed his empty glass on top of it before turning to face Miles. He took a deep breath and pulled his gun from its holster. He watched Miles carefully, noted how he'd moved into a better position, not that there were really a lot of options for him, but he was forward on the chair, weight distributed so that he could move as quickly as possible. Once again, Miles' eyes were unreadable, but this time Bass knew why. Bass held the gun out, pointed directly at Miles' head. He should shoot Miles for deserting him, for trying to kill him, but the longer he held the gun at Miles, the longer he looked at his best friend, the more he knew he couldn’t pull the trigger. He understood now, more than he had before, how Miles could want to shoot him, because a part of Bass wanted to shoot him, wanted to make him suffer for what he'd done, but he couldn't. He relaxed his shoulders and changed his grip on the gun. He took it by the barrel and held it out to Miles.

"Take it."

"W-what are you doing, Bass?"

"Take the gun, Miles."

Eyes questioning, Miles took the gun and stood to his feet.

"Do you still want to shoot me, Miles?"

"What?"

"I thought about it, on the way here. About that night. Your hand was shaking, but you couldn't pull the trigger. I couldn't either. I'm not going to hurt you; I couldn't. We're brothers. We look out for each other," Bass paused and forced a small smile. "Even when the other one screws up. I need you, Miles. Please. Come back."

Bass held his breath as Miles' hold on the gun changed, tensed into a proper grip. Bass watched Miles process everything. It always amazed him, seeing someone with no apparent emotion on their face display the minutest detail of their thoughts through the eyes, through the twitch of an eyebrow, through a softening around the edge of the eye. He knew the moment Miles made up his mind, but he still didn't breathe, not yet, not until it was real. Miles' shoulders slumped, and the gun fell to the ground.

"I’m sorry," Miles whispered, voice breaking.

Bass released the breath he'd been holding. Relief flooded through his system. He could barely believe it, and he didn't know what to do first, which emotion to process first.

"It's okay," Bass said, around a smile bigger than his face.

He took a small step forward, his arms feeling rather useless as he made gestures he wasn't sure even he could interpret. Miles understood though, Miles always understood and Bass felt Miles' arms wrap around him. Bass returned the embrace, his hand fisting in Miles' jacket. He felt Miles' body shake as the man fought back tears. Bass smiled and buried his face into Miles' neck, knowing Miles wasn't going to allow himself to cry, probably because of the men outside, but Bass held no such compunction. He felt the tears wet his cheeks as he held onto Miles.

Miles pulled back slightly and brought his hands up to cup Bass' face. Bass smiled softly when he felt Miles thumbs brush the stray tears away before pulling his face closer. He melted into the kiss, the feel of Miles' lips brushing against his. It was an extension of his earlier apology, and entreaty for forgiveness he'd already received. Bass brought his hands up to the back of Miles' neck, thumbs rubbing back and forth along his neck. Miles made no move to deepen the kiss; he seemed content to drive Bass out of his mind with gentleness of the kiss, the tender way Miles held him to his body. Miles might not be the best with words, but Bass had no trouble understanding everything that Miles was trying to convey, all the regret, the longing, the love. It was still there, it was in the way Miles nibbled on his bottom lip, the way his fingers caressed his hip.

"Stay tonight," Miles whispered against his ear. "The men can bunk down in the bar and we'll go home in the morning."

Bass pulled back enough to look up at Miles, surprised it had been that easy. Surprised to hear Miles say they'd go _home_. Honestly, he hadn't known what he expected when he left Philadelphia for Chicago. Jeremy had come in and told him he'd found Miles and that was it, Bass had dropped everything and left. The whole journey he'd tried wading through the different things he wanted, didn't want, expected, hoped for, but at the end there was one simple thing. He wanted Miles. He cupped Miles' face, smiling when Miles closed his eyes and nuzzled into the touch. They had so much to discuss, so many things that still needed to be said. Some things that might break the new truce they seem to have made. But, Bass wasn't a coward. He'd stay tonight, tell Miles everything, and just hope Miles didn't change his mind about shooting him.

"Sure, Miles."

The smile Miles gave him in return was worth it.

 

An hour later, the bodies had been removed and the men were settled in the bar with strict instructions not to disturb them. Miles had removed his jacket and tossed it carelessly across the back of one of the chairs. Bass followed suit, removing his jacket and unbuttoning the first couple of buttons of his shirt. He wasn't surprised that Miles still wore his sword belt, even when it was just the two of them; it was something Miles had always done. As Bass removed his, he realized it was something he only did when he was around Miles, the only person he felt safe around, and even after everything, he still felt safer around Miles than he did anyone else. After Miles left, he'd started keeping his sword on longer, keeping it closer to his bed at night.

Miles picked up Bass' jacket, an eyebrow raised. Bass walked over and stood next to Miles.

"I brought one for you," Bass said.

"I like the color."

Bass smiled. He knew blue was Miles' favorite color, which had been a major consideration when Bass had decided to commission a new uniform for himself. Even though he'd decided to create a new uniform for himself because Miles had left, he'd still ordered one for Miles. As Miles would say, ever the optimist, he had secretly hoped one day Miles would be standing next to him, once more wearing the uniform of the Monroe Republic. He looked up when he felt Miles' knuckle graze his neck. Miles was gazing down at the "M" insignia on his collar, his finger lightly tracing the shape.

"I brought you some of those, too," Bass whispered.

He wasn't sure why he was whispering, but there was something intimate about the moment. Miles' eyes snapped up to his, his eyes impossibly bright. Miles dropped his hand and Bass watched him reach into his pocket and pull out the necklace. When he'd noticed Miles wasn't wearing it, he'd assumed Miles had gotten rid of it. He followed Miles' finger with his eyes, watched as he traced the "M" on the back of the pendant.

"I couldn't wear it, here. Where someone might recognize it - me. But - " Miles swallowed, "I had to keep you close."

Miles held the necklace out to him and Bass couldn't say anything around the lump in his throat. He took the necklace, his fingers grazing Miles' and waited while Miles turned around. His heart was hammering in his chest as he put the necklace back around Miles' neck, remembering the first time he'd done the exact same thing. It was the first Christmas after the blackout and Bass had wanted to get something special for Miles, but his options were rather limited. He'd decided to melt down his dog tags, no longer having a practical use for them, and they were about the most personal item he had left. The hard part had been getting Miles to leave him alone long enough to get it done. Bass managed to shape it into a circle and to emboss their "M" on the back, so that no matter what happened, Miles would always have a part of Bass with him. He'd been so nervous about giving it to him, concerned Miles would be uncomfortable with the sentimentality of the gift.

His hands shook just as badly this time as he fumbled with the knot. It meant even more this time for Miles to put the necklace back on, for him to want Bass to put it on him. When he finally managed to get the knot tied, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against the back of Miles' neck, placing a line of kisses along the band of leather. Miles turned and wrapped his arms around Bass, fusing their lips together in a kiss much deeper than the one they'd shared earlier. Miles nipped at Bass' lower lip and he made a low noise in the back of his throat as he parted his lips, allowing Miles to deepen the kiss. It was good, having Miles in his arms again, feeling the press of his lips against his own. Bass returned this kiss, biting Miles' lower lip. It all just felt so right, this moment, this man. Bass pulled back and looked into Miles' eyes, drinking it all in, the sight of him after so many years apart. Part of him kept expecting to wake up, to find himself back in Philadelphia in his too large bed, alone.

"Tell me this is real, that you're really coming with me tomorrow."

Miles brought a hand up and gently stroked Bass' cheek.

"Yeah, it's real."

They settled into the couch, the fire blazing in front of them, a new glass of pre-blackout whiskey in their hands. He figured they'd polish off the bottle long before sunrise. They'd been quiet for some time, but Bass wasn't worried. He was tucked up close to Miles, close enough that he could hear Miles' heartbeat and the sound soothed him.

Bass woke up alone on the couch, which startled him briefly, but Miles' jacket was draped around him. He took a deep breath, and burrowed into the couch a bit more. He wasn't surprised Miles was awake. Miles had never slept much, and that only got worse after the blackout. When Miles did sleep, it was a restless, light sleep, as though he were always waiting for something to happen the second he closed his eyes. He heard Miles shuffling around behind him.

"I have coffee," Miles announced.

"That's almost worth getting off the couch for," Bass mumbled, eyes still closed.

"I'm naked."

Bass opened one eye and saw a fully clothed Miles smirking at him. At least the coffee wasn’t a lie. He tossed the jacket aside and instantly regretted it, the cold air hitting him. Bass sat up and repositioned the jacket around his shoulders before taking the coffee from Miles.

"Sorry, I know it's cold, but I didn't want to start a fire since we're leaving."

Bass nodded and focused on the coffee currently returning warmth to his system.

"You said something about a uniform," Miles said as he took a sip of his own coffee. "I figure the men are less likely to try and kill me if I'm wearing it."

He doubted any of the men would try to kill him, especially since there were only five left, but if Miles wanted to wear the uniform, Bass wasn't going to stop him. He'd imagined Miles in the uniform for a long time and he was ready to see if his imagination had been anywhere near correct. Plus, he knew Miles. Miles needed to wear the uniform, needed to make a statement, needed to offer visual proof that he was back. While the gesture was unnecessary, Bass appreciated it.

Bass stood, slid his arms into the jacket and brushed a kiss against Miles' cheek as he moved past him. It was nice to be able to do that again, to have the casual intimacy. He'd missed it and the ease with which he'd slipped back into it didn't surprise him as much as it probably should have. He walked into the bar and was pleased to see the men were awake and mostly ready to move. They all stopped what they were doing when he came into the room and Bass smiled, knowing Miles would find the whole scene amusing. Miles had never understood why the men would stop being productive just because he came into a room. He really didn't understand the affect he had on people.

"Be ready to leave in an hour."

Just as quickly as they'd stopped, they all began working even faster and Bass just managed not to roll his eyes. He walked over to where he'd put his pack last night and took it with him.

"I told the men we'd leave in an hour," Bass said as he tossed the pack to Miles. "That should give you enough time to pack up anything you need."

Miles nodded. Bass watched him walk back upstairs. As he settled back onto the couch, he realized he'd been wearing Miles' jacket the whole time, that the men had seen him in it. It didn't really matter though because the men also knew he'd spent the night with Miles, not that anything happened, well, nothing _that_ interesting. He didn't mind though. Miles was back and while Bass was certain things wouldn't go back to how they had been before, he was hopeful that they would progress into something like what they had before. A bit reluctantly, Bass removed Miles' jacket, buttoned up his shirt and slid on his own jacket. He shivered a bit, his jacket cold from the night. The gun wasn't on the ground, but was next to his swords, Miles probably put it there sometime in the night. As he slid the gun into its holster, he heard Miles on the stairs. With a calming breath, Bass turned to face Miles. He was right. Blue was the right color choice and Miles looked imposing as ever in the uniform. The "M's" looked right on Miles' collar, in a way it wouldn't look right on the rest of the militia. He'd thought about it, after Miles left, but he couldn’t give everyone the insignia. It didn't feel right.

"What's this?" Miles asked, holding his gun in the air.

"You left it behind," Bass shrugged. "I thought you would want it back since you were always so fond of it."

"It's practical."

Bass laughed. "Yes, it's a _practical_ custom Colt .45 with a hard chrome finish."

Miles rolled his eyes as he holstered the gun. It was one of their ongoing arguments. Miles found Bass' obsession with Desert Eagles impractical, especially since officers were able to put their names on a waiting list for when another one was found. Miles always maintained that he wouldn't need to be on some waiting list for another Colt .45, even if he weren't the Commanding General.

"Where's your stuff?"

Miles held up his rucksack. "This is it."

Bass was a bit stunned. Given the accumulation of items Bass knew Miles worked hard to get, he was only taking one little bag with him. He didn't want to know what Miles had done to get his hands on the phonograph and the Bon Jovi Gold Album.

"Everything important I left in Philly."

Bass' mouth formed a silent "o", throat suddenly too dry to form words. Miles didn't say anything else as he strapped on his swords and threw the rucksack over his shoulder.

"T-there's still time, if you wanted to take some of this with you," Bass managed.

Miles met his gaze. "No, I can't."

Bass knew Miles was more of a sentimentalist than he let on, and he also knew Miles didn't want any tangible memory of their time apart. He doubted there was anything in the rucksack aside from weapons, rations and maybe a change of clothes. 


End file.
